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Alright, listen up, ya horny bastards—sex-dating’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like, everybody lies, right? Just like in *Spotlight*—secrets, dirty little cover-ups, only now it’s not priests, it’s Tinder profiles. You swipe, you match, you think, “Oh, jackpot!” Nah, pal, it’s a scam half the time. Catfish city. Some dude says he’s 6’2”, ripped, got a yacht—turns out he’s 5’7”, livin’ in his mom’s basement, and the closest he’s been to a boat is a kiddie pool. “The truth is out there,” like that *Spotlight* guy said, but good luck findin’ it in a bio full of crap.

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But then, the mood shifts. Some bloke at the bar starts causin’ trouble. He’s shoutin’ about the races, throwin’ his drink around. I’m like, “Dude, chill!” But he’s not havin’ it. Next thing I know, he’s in my face, and I’m ready to throw down. But then, Lucy steps in. “Oi! Back off, mate!” She’s fierce, and I love it. The guy backs off, and I’m like, “Thanks, Lucy. You’re a lifesaver!”

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